The Nomination (29 page)

“I know that you—her daughter—were about the most significant thing that ever happened to her.”

Jessie jerked her head toward the house. “I want to go inside.”

“It's locked,” said Mac. “The police have the key.”

She nodded. “I could get in.”

“Bad idea,” he said.

“I'd just look around. See what kind of stuff she had. Books, paintings, you know? Get a feel for her. For Simone. If she was my mother ...”

“Better not,” said Mac.

She looked away from him for a minute. Then her eyes swung back. “They murdered her,” she said.

“Who?”

“I don't know,” said Jessie. “I don't know who or why. But I understand this scenario. It's easy to set up if you know what you're doing.”

Mac was shaking his head. “What do you know about . . . scenarios?”

She smiled. “I was a cop. A detective. I had a lot of special training. I learned to observe and to visualize. I worked undercover for a year and a half. I can think like a criminal.”

“That's comforting,” said Mac.

She didn't smile. “How you described it, one man could do it, since she couldn't get around on her own. Easier for two. Convenient, she kept a gun in the house. But if not, they would've used one that wasn't registered, couldn't be traced. So they make Jill sit in the chair beside Simone's bed, and the guy with the gun presses it against Jill's head and pulls the trigger. Then he shoots Simone in the chest. Then he puts Jill's hand around the pistol and he aims it at Simone and shoots her again. Then he lets Jill fall onto the floor with the gun in her hand. They don't take anything. They probably wear latex gloves. They leave no clues. In and out in fifteen minutes.”

“Jesus,” Mac whispered.

Jessie shrugged. “Piece of cake.”

“Maybe they did take something,” he said.

“What?”

“She told me she kept a photo beside her bed. From when she was young. Now it's not there.”

“That's it, then,” said Jessie.

“Okay,” said Mac. “Except—”

“Except why?” she said. “What's the motive?”

He nodded.

“You tell me.”

He shrugged. “The cop who I talked with said it wasn't burglary,” he said. “And it wasn't sexual. What's left?”

“The fact that we don't know the motive,” she said, “doesn't mean there isn't one.”

“I didn't mean that,” Mac said. “But maybe it was just random and crazy. No motive.”

“No such thing,” she said. “There's always a motive, even if it appears to be random and crazy. Nothing's really random. Crazy people have their crazy reasons.”

“What about a serial killer?”

“Doubtful,” said Jessie. “Serial killers almost always leave something behind. At the crime scene. On the body. How they arrange it. Or how they mutilate it. They don't try to disguise what they do. They're proud of their work. They expect to get caught. They want to get caught. They want the world to know how important and powerful they are. Anyway, the cop, he didn't mention other murders similar to this one around here, did he?”

Mac shook his head. “No.”

“So,” she said, “process of elimination, there's some logical motive.”

Mac nodded. It all made sense. “You really understand this stuff. Oh. Detective Alberts, he'd like you to call him. I have his card.”

Jessie shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

Mac smiled. “Meaning, maybe you won't, huh? Anyway, meanwhile, we don't know anything. It could have been suicide.”

Jessie shook her head. “It wasn't. They were murdered. We'll figure it out.” She fixed him with that penetrating look. “Do you want to figure it out?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“For your book?”

“Sure. I guess so. For Simone. She deserves the truth.” He looked at her. “What about you, Jessie?”

“I'd rather you didn't call me Jessie,” she said.

Mac frowned. “How come?”

She shook her head. “Long story. Call me Karen, okay? For now, I'm Karen Donato.”

He shrugged. “Sure. Okay. So are you with me on this?”

“Getting the truth?” she said. “Listen, I drove all the way from California. At first this was just a place to head to because I had to get away from where I was. But I kept thinking about it, and the closer I got, the more I wanted to meet her, to know for sure whether or not she was my mother, to find out about myself. It started to feel really important to me. So now, yeah, I am significantly aggravated. I drive all the way across the country, and then somebody kills her and prevents me from meeting her and talking with her and figuring it out? It pisses me off. I want to know why.”

“I've got an idea,” said Mac.

“The tapes,” said Jessie.

He nodded.

“Let's listen to them,” she said. “I've got a bunch of questions.”

“Like?”

“Like, for starters, if Simone was my mother, who was my father?”

LARRIGAN WANTED TO use the parking garage again, which was all right with Eddie Moran. The way they did it, Eddie parking on a different floor, walking down, the garage dim and dank, easy to tell if you were being followed—it was pretty secure.

Of course, Eddie could never be sure when those guys who called themselves Mr. Black and Mr. White were following him or when they'd try to contact him again or what they intended to do next.

It was pretty obvious they weren't done with him yet. Guys like that, they killed you when they were done with you.

Eddie Moran intended to remain useful to Mr. Black and Mr. White for as long as possible while he tried to figure out how to prevent them from killing him.

He'd killed Li An for them. Somehow he doubted if that would be the end of it.

The judge's car was parked where it had been the other time. Eddie opened the passenger door and slid in. “Semper fi,” he said to the judge.

“What's up?” said Larrigan. “I don't like this.”

“What don't you like?”

“Sneaking around,” he said. “Meeting this way.”

“You want to reserve a table for two at the Four Seasons, wear neckties?”

Larrigan blew out an exasperated breath. “So what've you got for me?”

“How about, your troubles are over?”

“What do you mean?”

“Li An. She's dead.”

“Dead?” Larrigan turned and glared at Moran with that one blue eye. “You're saying you—”

“Suicide, judge. Her and her girlfriend. Both of them. A suicide pact.”

“Jesus,” said Larrigan. “You killed her.”

“Read my lips,” said Eddie. “It was suicide.”

“Bullshit,” said Larrigan. “I know you.”

“Why would I kill her? You think I just go around killing people? We just got lucky here, that's all. She was sick and depressed, and she did it.”

Larrigan laughed quickly. “How lucky can you get, huh?”

“Yeah. Pretty lucky.”

“What about those photographs?”

“She didn't have them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Eddie, “Li An didn't have the fucking photographs. They weren't in her house. I looked everywhere.”

“You went in and searched?”

Moran nodded. “They weren't there. Trust me.”

“Where the hell are they, then?”

“I don't know,” said Eddie. “But I don't see that it matters. Without somebody to tell the story, verify who's in those pictures, explain what they mean, they're harmless. And besides you, me, Bunny and Li An, there is nobody else, right?”

Larrigan smiled. “And now it's just you and me.”

“Anybody sees those pictures, they wouldn't recognize any of us. You, looking like a damn hippie, no patch on your eye. All of us just kids. Li An was a baby, for Christ's sake.”

“I wish the hell you got them, though.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “I didn't. They're gone. It's over, and I'm done with this whole damn thing. You're in the clear, okay?”

Larrigan smiled crookedly. “Okay.”

“So congratulations, Justice Larrigan.” Moran held his hand out.

Larrigan grasped it. “Justice Larrigan,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Moran. “We should probably steer clear of each other for a while.”

Moran stuffed the envelope into his pants pocket. “Call me if you need me,” he said.

M
ac was headed home to Concord, and Jessie was following him in her green Cherokee. Mac kept an eye on his rearview mirror, and whenever Jessie fell behind or a car got between them, he slowed down until she was there again. They'd exchanged cell phone numbers in case they got separated.

He waited til quarter of four to call Katie.

It rang four or five times before she answered with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Honey, it's me.”

“Oh, hi, Daddy. Sorry. I was outside. I meant to bring the phone out with me.”

“That's okay. What were you doing outside?”

“I thought I'd pull some weeds. Our flower gardens are a disaster.”

Jane had liked gardening. Said it relaxed her, gave her a creative outlet. She'd done all the weeding and planting. To Mac, gardening was just backbreaking work. He'd been happy to leave it to her.

Katie had showed no interest whatsoever in yard work. No interest in any kind of work, for that matter. Katie had been a normal teenage girl.

But that was when Jane was still alive.

When Jane tended the flower gardens around the house, they always looked good. But in the year since she died, nobody had paid any attention to them. So this sounded like another way that Katie was trying to replace her mother. Mac didn't think that was a good thing, but he didn't know what to do about it.

“Don't pull all of 'em,” said Mac. “Leave some for me.”

“That's a deal,” said Katie. “Where are you?”

“On my way back from Simone's. I should be home around six-thirty.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Not really,” he said. “It looks like Simone and Jill committed suicide. I'm sorry.”

Katie was silent.

“What do you say we go out to eat tonight?” he said.

“How come?”

He hesitated. “We're going to have a guest. I thought it would be nice if we went out.”

“Who's the guest?”

He thought he detected wariness in Katie's voice. Maybe it was his imagination. “It's Simone's daughter,” he said. “Her name is Karen. She arrived when I was there.”

Katie said nothing.

“Honey?” said Mac. “Did you hear me?”

Katie cleared her throat. “Yes. I was just thinking . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing, Daddy. Want me to call for reservations?”

“Good idea. How about that new Thai place?”

“Okay. What time?”

“Make it seven.” He paused. “Karen will be staying with us for a few days.”

“I'll make the bed in the guest room.”

Mac was trying to interpret Katie's tone. He wondered if she was thinking how Jessie—Karen—had lost her mother just as Katie had. Or if she was resenting the idea of another woman staying in their house.

“See you soon, then,” he said.

“Drive carefully.”

“I always do. Love you, kiddo.”

“Me, too.”

He hit the “end” button and dropped the phone on the seat beside him. He was beginning the think this was a bad idea.

He'd asked Jessie if she wanted to listen to Simone's tapes, and she said she definitely did. Jessie said something about finding a motel room, and Mac said, “That's silly. We've got an empty guest room. You can stay with us.”

And Jessie shrugged and said, “Sure, okay, that would be nice, thanks.”

He hadn't considered Katie, how she'd react to a strange woman sleeping in their house.

He picked up his phone and pecked out Jessie's number.

“That you, Mac?” she said.

“Yep. How you doing back there?”

“I'm not letting you out of my sight.”

“Oh, oh.” He laughed. “I just talked to Katie. She's calling in reservations for us. There's a new Thai restaurant not far from our house. I've heard it's pretty good. I hope you like Thai.”

“Sure,” she said. “Thai is great.”

“We'll get home in time for you to get cleaned up before we eat.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Am I dirty?”

“I didn't mean—”

“I'm joking, Mac. It sounds great. I'm looking forward to meeting Katie.”

“She is, too,” he said, wondering if it was true.

THE MINUTE JESSIE walked into Mac Cassidy's house she knew something was off.

There were ghosts here. It was haunted. She could see it in Katie's eyes.

They were standing in the kitchen. Jessie had her backpack slung over one shoulder. Mac had brought in her duffel bag, the one that held her weapons.

Katie had met them at the door. She gave Mac a big hug, and now her arm was hooked through his. Possessively, Jessie thought.

She was a pretty teenager. Mature-looking for her age. Mac had told her Katie was fifteen. She didn't look much like her father that Jessie could see.

She seemed to be making a project of looking anywhere but at Jessie.

“Uh,” said Mac, “Karen, Karen Donato, this is Katie.”

“Hey,” said Jessie.

“Hi.” Katie was looking at the floor.

“Did you make the reservations?” said Mac.

“All set,” she said.

“Seven?”

The girl nodded.

“Honey,” said Mac to Katie, “will you show Karen where the guest room is?” He handed the duffel to her. “She'd probably like to get freshened up before dinner.”

“Okay, sure.” Katie took the duffel and headed for the stairway. “This way,” she said. She still hadn't met Jessie's eyes.

Jessie leaned toward Mac. “I think this was a bad idea,” she said.

“She'll be okay,” he said.

“You're not telling me things I should know.”

“You're right,” he said. “Sorry. I will, but—”

“She died, right?”

He blinked.

“Your wife. Katie's mother.”

He nodded. “Yes. A year ago last March.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “I figured you were divorced. If I'd known—”

“It'll be okay,” he said. “Really. I'm glad you're here.”

Katie poked her head back into the kitchen. “You coming, Karen?” She was looking at Mac, not Jessie.

“Coming,” said Jessie. She shook her head at Mac, then followed Katie up the stairs.

The guest room was at the end of the hallway. Jessie noted that the master bedroom was directly across the hall. Katie's room was at the opposite end, near the top of the stairs.

There was a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a small desk, and a television on a table in the corner. A set of four watercolor prints hung on one wall. They depicted various waterfowl in flight. On another wall, a window looked out into the leafy side yard.

The room was neither masculine nor feminine. It was clean and neat and pleasant and devoid of personality.

“You've got your own bathroom,” Katie said, “through there.” She pointed at a doorway. “Closet, there. The TV's on cable, and the remote's in the drawer. We get a million channels.” She gave Jessie a quick polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Nope,” said Jessie. “Thanks. I'm good.”

“We should leave for dinner in like fifteen minutes.” Katie turned and started for the door.

“Hey, Katie?” said Jessie.

Katie stopped and looked at Jessie.

Jessie shrugged. “Nothing. I'm all set.”

AS SOON AS Blackhole had returned from the Beaverkill job, he had sat at his computer. He'd summarized the encounter he and Mr. White had had with Eddie Moran, what Moran had agreed to do for them, and how smoothly he had done it. The police had apparently bought the murder-suicide scenario.

And Blackhole wrote down everything that Moran had told them about the woman and her importance. Blackhole had an excellent memory, and Mr. White had done a good job of making sure that Moran held nothing back.

Blackhole had listened to the audiotape they took from Moran, the one that the woman had made. It gave him two names that Moran didn't know. Mac and Jessie. Just first names. Jessie was the woman's daughter. Mac was the one to whom she was speaking when she made the tape.

This tape also told him that there were other tapes, and that this Mac had them. Moran had been interested in photographs.

He had described what was in those photographs. It was clear why he wanted them.

Blackhole needed to recover both the tapes and the photographs.

He transferred the digital images from Moran's camera onto his computer. The interesting ones showed a bearded man, a ruggedlooking guy about forty. Had to be the one named Mac. Some shots, he was sitting with Simone, the two of them talking intently. Some, he was with a girl, looked like a teenager. Some, he and the girl were walking toward his car, him carrying a plastic bag. Some, close-ups of the license plate on the car, clear enough to read the numbers. Massachusetts plates.

Blackhole figured the girl was Mac's daughter.

He ran the plate numbers. The car was registered to Edwin MacArthur Cassidy, lived in Concord.

MacArthur. Mac.

Quick Google search. Mac Cassidy had ghostwritten the autobiographies of several famous people.

Simone—Moran had referred to her as Li An—turned out to be a semi-famous former movie actress named Simone Bonet. A recent item in
Publishers Weekly
announced that Mac Cassidy had signed a contract to ghostwrite Simone's autobiography.

That was before she became the
late
Simone Bonet.

Blackhole thought the whole picture was pretty clear. Cassidy had the tapes, and he guessed Cassidy had the photographs, too. So Mac Cassidy and the daughter, Jessie, were the only ones left who could cause a problem. Not counting Eddie Moran, of course.

Blackhole had submitted his report to Shadowland. Twelve hours later he had met with Bellwether. He had received his instructions.

Now it was time to get started.

At midnight precisely he picked up his cell phone and pecked out a number. He hit the send button, put the phone to his ear, let it ring once, then disconnected.

He put the phone on the table and waited.

At precisely seven minutes after midnight, it rang twice, then stopped.

Blackhole dialed a different number.

A muffled voice answered. “Mr. Black?”

“Hello, Mr. White,” said Blackhole. “We have more work to do.”